


Shanxi

by Some_Writer



Series: Turian Machinations of Spectres and Primarchs [7]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: A few F Bombs here and there, Blood and Violence, First Contact War, Gen, Gun Violence, Language Barrier, Mild Language, Prisoner of War, References to Depression, Restraints, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer
Summary: Summary:A turian Lieutenant fights for the lives of his platoon. A human General struggles to maintain peace. As they both fight their own battles, each one struggles to surmount colossal objectives. Until they met at last.Excerpt:What Victus never accounted for was the possibility of going to war with a newly discovered race. Perhaps, when he was younger, he had held grand thoughts of leading a team against another acid-spitting, fourteen-eyed insect race like the rachni. He would shoot a phantom individual in the head with his imaginary shotgun and step away heroically to avoid the resultant green spray of acidic blood and brain matter while his platoon cheered.Of course, as he aged, such fantasies of resplendent heroism died long before he landed on Shanxi. Fortunate, because their enemies were not six-eyed insectoids that spewed acid and shat webbing. They were bipedal like most races, with only two forward-facing eyes, asari-like hands, and they bled red when bullets hit them. Sometimes, they even cried like asari.Human, they called themselves.
Series: Turian Machinations of Spectres and Primarchs [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/889542
Comments: 80
Kudos: 35





	1. Victus

**Author's Note:**

> **Hello! I had originally begun writing this over a year ago with the intent of adding it as a long chapter to[Begin.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15520101/chapters/36026346)  
> Then it just kept getting longer and longer, then Primarch Week rolled around, and I'm 20K words deep and I'm tired of waiting!**
> 
> **Content Warning:** _Please be aware of violence, as this does take place during a war. I try not to get too graphic, as I dislike gore myself, but it's there in the forms of blood, dead bodies, pain, and breaking bones. There is also a scene in which the POV character is restrained and held down. The last thing I want to do is make someone uncomfortable, so please be advised when reading._
> 
> **Credits: This story was made possible by several amazing betas that I am so fortunate to know.  
> [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl)  
> [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter).  
> [White_Aster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster).  
> [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei).  
> I must also credit [SomethingProfound.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingProfound/pseuds/SomethingProfound) She is _the_ Ashley Williams writer so of course, I went to her for headcanons on Ash's grandfather, General Williams, including his first name. Hopefully, I've done him justice. :D  
> **
> 
> **The amazing artwork you see below is courtesy of the one and only[Savbakk.](https://savbakk.tumblr.com/)**

**Shanxi, 2157**

Before the age of fifteen, Adrien dreamt his way through a thousand scenarios and possibilities that awaited him after boot camp. He used to dart through the Intuneric Woodland, plastic rifle in hand, and leap atop the biggest boulder he could find-- a surprise attack that gave him and his phantom platoon the upper hand against imaginary pirates and Separatists. The surrounding, silver trees played the roles of his enemies. 

Now, instead of running freely through warm Palaven forests, Adrien crept slowly through foreign, levo-based groves. A heavy Armax rifle took the place of his light-weight plastic model and the idle characters that the trees had played now shot to kill. But those were all aspects he expected to change.

“Hold.” Captain Ambus quietly ordered, his gauntleted hand rising to bring their troop to a halt. 

What Victus never accounted for was the possibility of going to war with a newly discovered race. Perhaps, when he was younger, he had held grand thoughts of leading a team against another acid-spitting, fourteen-eyed insect race like the rachni. He would shoot a phantom individual in the head with his imaginary shotgun and step away heroically to avoid the resultant green spray of acidic blood and brain matter while his platoon cheered.

Of course, as he aged, such fantasies of resplendent heroism died long before he landed on Shanxi. Fortunate, because their enemies were not six-eyed insectoids that spewed acid and shat webbing. They were bipedal like most races, with only two forward-facing eyes, asari-like hands, and they bled red when bullets hit them. Sometimes, they even cried like asari.

Human, they called themselves.

They were organized; they could fight. But they also liked to smoke, they liked to drink, and he discovered that they could be quite creative with their expletives. Victus had decided that ‘skullface’ was his favorite. 

If he wasn’t expected to kill them, he thought maybe he might like them. Yet, as it stood… 

Through a shallow morning fog that floated a meter off the ground, Adrien narrowed his eyes on a downed ship in the clearing ahead. His fingers tightened around the rifle stock. The enemy aircraft was a medium-sized vessel, designed to transport colonists comfortably on long journeys from relay to relay. It had been shot from the sky almost an hour ago where it now lay halfway encased in the loamy soil, broken and cracked like carrion. Alone. 

The sight made his plates itch and he glanced sideways at his captain. He hoped the man would feel Adrien’s eyes on his back and think to glance his way but he remained as aloof as ever. 

“Sevenis,” Captain Ambus quietly beckoned. “Send a drone in.” 

“Sir,” their tech expert affirmed, raising her omni-tool to punch a code into the holo-interface. Within seconds, a drone materialized-- Magrim’s design, Adrien quietly noted with pride. Instead of heading into the clearing, it zipped through the trees lining the perimeter. It weaved its way around trunks, bobbing and darting as gracefully as one of the planet’s many small, flying creatures. 

Once it cleared the perimeter, it flew into the open, scanning the ground for foreign objects before finally entering the ship through a large gap made by slabs of metal flayed open in the crash. 

Victus continued to scan the scene for any signs of movement, but so far the only visible activity was the mist swirling around the wreckage and occasionally a flash of light from the drone as it passed a smashed porthole. Every now and again he would key in on wordless subvocals as Sevenis cleared the compartments the drone flew through. 

The longer he watched, the more his suspicions grew. Adrien had seen plenty of human ships up close. Granted, they were holograms from gathered intelligence, but the one in front of him had seen better days, even before it was shot down. Old paint had long since begun flaking from long-term sun exposure and rust clung around bolts and along the seams in the metal. He could almost hear Magrim’s voice chastising the state of what was once a perfectly good vessel; imagine her mandibles pinching into a frown while she took in the outward appearance as if it were a wounded animal requiring care. 

Abandoned. 

Scuttled. 

Hopefully, the drone would find something, anything that would give the captain reason to pause. Otherwise, he knew what the following order would be: Captain Ambus would want to investigate. As Sevenis continued to clear more and more rooms, Adrien's dread mounted until finally- 

“All clear, sir.” Somewhere inside the ship, the drone fizzled out. “And I’m sending the layout now.” 

Adrien’s omni-tool vibrated silently with an incoming transmission. 

Swallowing his trepidation, Victus crept towards the captain’s position and whispered in a low frequency that humans-- if any were nearby-- couldn’t hear, “Permission to speak, sir.”

“Denied.” Captain Ambus never tore his gaze from the ship’s hull. Did he not see the same signs? Was the neglect of the ship not as apparent to him as it was to Adrien?

Victus suppressed an irritated growl.

“Sir-”

“Shut it, Lieutenant.” Cinnabar eyes glared from behind a dark, opaque visor. “We move in on my order.”

Adrien was grateful that his helmet obscured his sudden show of teeth. He wanted to snap back but clamped down on his second vocals nonetheless. He wasn’t the one in command and he knew better than to rattle the chain, especially at a time like this. No matter how much he wanted to. 

“Yes, sir,” he gritted, hating the words as they fell from his maw. 

The platoon secured the perimeter one last time before they moved swiftly through the clearing, using the thick fog as cover. The cargo hatch was easy enough to open and, within the span of seventy seconds, they were inside and split into small groups. 

Quickly, they moved through the innards of the ship, weapons drawn and omni-tools raised with a holographic layout floating above their wrists. Power had been completely cut, leaving them in a blackness only pierced by the gray morning light that filtered in and the swift bobbing and darting of their own helmet lights. 

A chorus of ‘clear’ began to echo in his comm, his disquietude growing with each one. Indeed, the ship was clear. Hidden among scattered clutter, broken crates, toppled mattresses, nests of wiring and torn metal was _nothing_. No bodies, no weapons, no tech. 

It was when he and the captain moved into the ship’s galley-- gutted like every other room-- that he heard, from outside, the sound of fighter jets echo overhead. There was a hollow _whir_ to the engines that separated them from the clunky atrocities that humans flew. They were turian vessels for certain and their arrival should have put Victus’ nerves at ease with the exception of one caveat-- 

They never called for air support. 

Immediately, Adrien flattened himself against a wall and spoke into his omni-tool. “Victus to look-out. Can you confirm the identity of the jets?” 

The comm remained silent. He tried again. More silence. He could practically feel the ambush closing around them, ensnaring them like trapped animals before they had a chance to bite. Looking up, he spotted the captain just as he ripped a chrome-topped table up from rusty bolts that secured its legs to the floor. He flipped it around to create a shelter and settled behind it, omni-tool alight on his wrist. It would seem, miraculously, that the Spirits bestowed him the ability to come to the same conclusion.

Took him long enough.

_“Take cover!”_ Ambus growled over the open link, but Adrien had already zeroed in on his bunker and was sprinting by the time _“Ready yourselves for a fight”_ buzzed through. 

Adrien tried to tell himself that he hadn’t intentionally picked the shelter that the captain had. It was simply his best option available. When he slid in beside Ambus, Victus checked his munitions, partly to confirm what he already knew of his reserves but mostly to dissolve traitorous fantasies of pummeling Ambus’ face through his helmet visor. As it was, he could barely muster the ability to look at him.

It was hard to refrain from hissing _‘this is on you,’_ as Adrien braced himself on one knee and snapped the rifle stock against his shoulder. Yet he didn’t bother to banish the accusation from his subvocals. The captain’s condemnation resonated in a deep growl. 

Adrien peered around the edge of the table and took in the room. Waiting.

It started with a staccato of gunfire from where he knew the entrance of the ship to be. The perimeter watchers were probably lying dead in the moist soil, flat-footed boots stepping over them to echo through the shuttle’s metal corridors. Returning gunfire answered the call, roaring from Hierarchy-issued Armax rifles but the foreign ones would soon reign loudest. 

None of them would go down without a fight. Neither would he. 

Satisfied with both his ammunition reserves and his mental readiness, Adrien tucked his legs underneath him and set his sights on the only exit of the room. A warning rumble from Ambus stilled his motion, but only for a heartbeat, a second's hesitation that allowed time to meet the gaze of the one who had led them into this. They had been set up to fail, backed into a corner but Adrien would be damned before he let his friends die alone while he quartered behind a kitchen table.

Adrien returned the warning with a snarl of his own and moved. It was easy to ignore the moment of blatant insubordination, the thought swallowed by trajectories and plans that unfolded in his head. By the time he flattened himself beside the archway, his next course of action was calculated three times over. He reached up to switch the headlight off. A moment, then somewhere in the gloom the captain’s visor darkened in kind. The implication was tempting to explore but Victus had about twelve-- the vessel shuttered at the impact of an explosion-- eight seconds before humans closed in on their location. 

The gleam of a black rifle barrel. A shine of metal that glinted around the corner, guided by a hand whose owner knew his location based on the feedback of his heat signature. Adrien had counted on it and his body went into motion. 

While his own visor was equipped with thermography tech, he preferred it for stealth missions more-so than combat. A shock of bright color in his vision would have been distracting when he had to swipe at the rifle with his non-dominant hand, fingers closing around the barrel and redirecting it from his face. Another step brought him into the human’s space, his omni-blade unfurling on his wrist before it seared through the protective visor, settling between two wide eyes. 

It would have been hard to parse the second soldier that stepped up behind their fallen ally if they were both obscured in a cloud of colored diagnostics, but Adrien could see perfectly in the low light. In the second it took for that thin digit to squeeze the trigger, its owner was bludgeoned in the temple. Her partner’s rifle was wielded by Adrien like a club, held from the barrel. Fortunately, Adrien’s helmet aided in diminishing the impact of the rifle’s fire in his aural canal as the bullet flew wide. The soldier staggered, granting all the time he needed to pull his blade from one head and implant it in another. 

Receding footfalls alerted to a third soldier retreating down the corridor. It was tempting to give chase but he resisted. Instead, he lobbed a flashbang around the corner just as the humans, predictably, threw one of their own. They would all be blind but he was better equipped, faster, stronger, and-- he’d argue-- smarter. Not that he considered humans unintelligent. They were simply against an opponent that was born, raised, and trained for this.

As his mother would say: _war is in his bones._

Through a flash of white, Adrien threw himself down the hallway. Blind but not completely disadvantaged. The visor of his helmet reduced the brightness, protecting his eyes even if his field-of-view was diminished. His long stride easily doubled that of his target’s shorter one and his reach was long. 

Claws extended through the gaps of his gloves, Adrien pursued the frantic sound of flat boots pounding the metal floor. Rapidly, he gained on the fleeing soldier and grabbed him before he could get too far. He aimed for the general direction of the throat but only managed to secure the plastic guard that protected it. It still made an ideal handhold to lift the soldier off the ground and toss him bodily toward the right. Ceramic plating hit the metal floor in a satisfying cacophony of flailing limbs and accompanying shouts that indicated where to go next.

Nine seconds had passed. 

Nineteen by the time his kill count rose to five. 

Twenty-three when the steady beat of a Crossfire rifle came thundering down the hallway he’d just vacated. Captain Ambus, his legs bent and ready to propel him forward, appeared at the mouth of the corridor, his face captured in the flickering fire of his weapon’s discharge. Those caught in his sights fell while others wisely withdrew when they could. 

During the span of their brief reprieve, which was only a second or two, his helmeted head inclined toward Adrien. And though the distance denied the ability to see the captain’s eyes from behind his tinted visor, Adrien knew their gazes were locked. A curt nod, an understanding reached, and the two were fighting together. 

“Any bright ideas, Victus?”

They were huddled behind the wide, steel frame of a console terminal. Its width extended just far enough to shield them from the humans’ unrelenting fire. Primitive as their bullets were, they could still punch a hole through their armor provided that enough of them focused on one place; break through the shield and then through the plating. It was a tactic the humans had long since figured out as they coordinated their fire to one spot at a time. 

Instead of answering, Adrien raised his omni-tool. Ambus took the signal to lean out and pepper their enemies, keeping them conveniently behind their bunkers while he spoke into his comm. “This is Lieutenant Victus. Can anyone confirm escape pods on the ship?” 

At first, he was met with silence and, as it lengthened, his nerves pricked at the idea that he and Ambus might be the only ones left. Only the distant bang from an Armax Avalanche assured otherwise.

_“Yes, Lieutenant.”_ As the voice crackled over the comm, Adrien released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The speaker was winded, panting into their comm, but the voice still registered as tech expert Sevenis. 

“Location of the escape pods,” he ordered. 

_“The cockpit, sir.”_

Adrien was about to ask for the quantity but the question died when a burst of sparks erupted in his periphery. He winced at the flash and heard the scraping of a boot against the steel floor followed by a pained groan from beside him. Adrien forced his eyes open.

He had seen animals die before, countless times while on hunting trips with his parents. Turians were no different. Ambus’ foot scraped and kicked at the floor like a scared creature fighting for its final breaths, beating death away before the void could steal the life from its lungs. Sparks rained from the terminal beside Ambus' head, the corner melted into a groove by a large, hot bullet. To his credit, Ambus’ rifle remained in one hand while the other clutched pitifully at his neck. Though, despite his efforts to stem the flow, liquid cobalt was pooling rapidly into his cowl. 

“Terax!” Adrien called the name of their field medic into his comm before remembering their lack of cover fire. Leaning against the console, Adrien hefted his gun above the terminal and fired indiscriminately. When it was time to pop the heatsink, he took advantage of the break to ask, “What’s your location?” 

_“Terax- Terax is dead, sir!”_ Sevenis’ garbled shout dropped a stone in his stomach. Then he realized that Ambus had quieted. 

Adrien looked up, expecting to see the worst. Given how still the captain sat, the direction of his visor tilted toward Adrien’s wrist, he might have thought so. It was the blue-soaked hand that remained dutifully at his neck that gave away his lingering life signs. 

“Sir,” Adrien began. Blood was brimming over the rim of his cowl now, trailing down the crevasses of his armor like mini-streams of black ink. “Terax is-”

“I heard,” Ambus grunted. “Go.” 

Later, Adrien would admonish himself for his hesitation. A moment of weakness committed by a young turian yet unaccustomed to having to leave an ally behind. Even one that had incited as much anger and frustration as Ambus had. But the hesitation was brief, just several heartbeats in which he registered the futility of trying to save his captain. 

The humans knew which armors to look for when firing on their enemies. They understood how to separate officers from privates. Certainly, they would want Ambus alive and that the shots he took were meant for a different, less-lethal part of his body. 

They might still want him alive.

“Go!” The captain understood this as well. Ambus raised his weapon, blood dripping off the point of his elbow, and fired over the terminal. The message was clear: _Get them out of here._

Faced with his only opportunity to escape, Adrien didn’t vacillate again. He was on his feet and running, refusing to look back as Ambus’ Crossfire lived up to its name, thundering over the room. He ignored his shields when they flickered but stumbled when a bullet punched through the top point of his hip. He recovered quickly, however, and bit through the pain that surged up his side as he rounded a corner and raised his omni-tool.

“This is Lieutenant Victus,” he growled into his comm, dashing around another corner and almost barreling into a human. Adrien raised his gun before the man registered he was there and fired twice into his skull. He was running again before the soldier hit the ground. “Fall back to the cockpit!” 

He didn’t bother to wait for acknowledgments. He simply ran toward the objective in mind, hoping not to get shot again. When he reached the modest-sized CIC, with the cockpit located straight ahead, it was to the sight of five of his soldiers pinned down against twelve human combatants. 

Human combatants that stood between him and his goal. 

Large chunks of debris and fallen equipment offered ample if not flimsy opportunities for cover. On the far side of the room, his troops were doing their best to utilize sheets of metal and sparking terminal consoles to shield themselves. Sevenis’ presence was indicated by the blue-lit drone that bobbed and darted around the room, helpfully drawing enemy fire while directing its heat-seeking missiles. 

Through an unrelenting din of gunfire, detonating flash-bangs, and wailing cries of agony, Adrien mapped out the field. He memorized the locations for each of his opponents displayed as they were before him. The resiliency of their chosen cover measured in how they endured against Magrim’s missile-firing algorithm. All potential vantage points that could be secured were committed to memory as well as how much risk would be involved. 

Strategy is a system of expedients. It’s more than science, it is the translation of science into practical life, the development of an original leading thought in accordance with ever-changing circumstances. 

Every action could lead to defeat or victory; often times the outcome came down to a coin-flip. All Victus could do was take the coin in hand, feel the weight of it in his palm, and compile all the pieces he’d need for the coin to land face-up. Which way the wind was blowing, the amount of force in his toss, whether or not he used his dominant hand, his current footing, and if the grading of the ground would affect the muscles in his back, shoulder and, ultimately, his arm.

Adrien took a breath and reached for the proverbial coin at his grenade belt. He withdrew the first flashbang his fingers fell upon and lobbed it at the humans. For the second time that day, he threw himself into the flash of white. 

Following his mental map of the layout, Adrien skirted around the enemy line before they could target him. He quickly made his way toward a steel crate located at the edge of the room, manned by just a single human. 

Emerging from the smoke and lights, Adrien slammed himself into the soldier and pinned him to the ground. Before Adrien could secure his arm, however, the human managed to ram their rifle painfully into his waist, shouting what was undoubtedly an expletive Adrien had yet to learn followed by a word that he had: “Skullface!” 

Biting through the pain that radiated from his waist, Adrien’s omni-blade slid home through his opponent’s neck. With the soldier-- mostly-- dispatched, he lifted the convulsing body on top of the crate-- primarily for added cover, but also an effective shock tactic. 

Enraged adversaries made mistakes and empathetic ones looked away.

Now, with the wall at his back, support at his left, Victus unshouldered his rifle. It was time to enact part two of his plan: Flank the enemy.

“ _Light these bastards up!_ ” He roared with both sets of vocals, vibrations buzzing across the room. And his troops answered in kind. They rose from their shelters in one cohesive movement and fired like a swarm of provoked klixen. From his new vantage, Adrien was able to force the enemy to abandon their sturdier barricades for flimsier options. Missiles flew from Sevenis' drone, blowing their hasty selections to pieces. 

Like pyjaks, the humans cursed and scurried from their broken ramparts as they tried to retreat toward the doorway. 

“ _Don’t let up!_ ” 

Red puddles had begun to pool in various places on the floor. A couple of humans managed to slip from the room only to come running back when they encountered the rest of the turian platoon that had managed to make their way to the ordered destination.

“ _Make them pay for every life lost!”_

The humans soon found themselves pinned beneath the advancing turians, reduced to huddling behind what meager options for shelter they had left. None offered protection for long. Barricades splintered under the weight of dead soldiers, thrown like play-things to crumble a sifting sand-fortress. The enemy was routed and they knew it, but to their credit, they fought hard as their allies fell one by one. It would seem they learned enough from this war to know that turians didn’t make a habit of taking prisoners. 

“ _Make them pay for every fucking centimeter stolen!_ ” 

As the amount of red blossomed and grew, puddles running off into expanding pools, so did his pride. It was easy to be swept up in the moment. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he no longer felt the injuries he had taken. His soldiers rose and responded as if they were his own talons flexed to rake across arteries. It was easy, but he resisted. Complacency led to recklessness and recklessness got people killed.

When the last human slumped to the floor, Adrien hurried over to the cockpit. Time was limited. More humans would arrive on the scene shortly and that was the best-case scenario. They, of course, also had the option of cutting their losses and simply blowing the ship to smithereens now that the turian commanding officer was dead and thus useless to them. Even if Victus turned and marched his soldiers out the way they had come, they would be gunned down the second they stepped foot outside.

Attached to the cockpit waited their only hope to abscond, a lonely escape pod, just as Sevenis reported. It idled alone between the empty recesses of its departed brethren. The sight should have lifted Adrien’s heart in a wave of hope but he only felt apprehension as he eyed the chamber door.

The humans had taken care to relieve the vessel of all her escape pods save for one. This was a decision. Enemy tactics had already begun piecing themselves together in his head the second they came upon the downed spacecraft. It was bait used to lure in a platoon and then launch an ambush to scatter them inside tight quarters. The lone escape pod could only be another segment to the human’s overall plan.

“Sevenis.”

“Sir.” The tech-expert hurried to Adrien’s side, her drone zooming merrily around her helmeted head. 

“Have you scanned the interior of the pod?” 

“Yes, sir. The moment you asked about it over the comm.” Her talons tapped at her omni-tool, bringing up results that didn’t improve his mood. She held out her wrist to show him. “Empty.” 

Empty- a word that encompassed a wealth of meaning. Empty meant no explosives, no tripwires, no gas, no soldiers lying in wait. Adrien approached the door, his dread growing with each step. Empty meant there was nothing inside to _outwardly_ kill them all. 

He wondered…

Adrien opened the control panel beside the door, revealing just two buttons. Of course, his translator wasn’t modified to include any human languages. Only captains and generals were outfitted with that kind of top-of-the-line tech that could adapt to new languages with enough exposure, but even theirs weren’t perfect. And what was deciphered were only words picked up enough times for the device to place meaning, often forming broken sentences. Hence why charming names like ‘skull face’ and ‘bird’ had become widely understood among the troops. 

Regardless, logic dictated that one trigger was for ‘open’ and the other for ‘close.` He tried the red button, nothing. He tried the blue and the door cycled open to a perfectly vacant pod. 

Adrien turned to Sevenis. “Scan the firing mechanism,” he ordered with a jerk of his head. 

Sevenis tapped her omni-tool and the drone flew inside to cast its sensory beam on all the circuitry. After a moment her ‘tool _pinged_ with the predicted result. “Faulty,” she reported. 

Victus nodded, picturing the final pieces of the human puzzle as they fell into place. “And the door?” 

A beat during which the drone about-faced and scanned the entrance. Sevenis’ opaque visor cleared, becoming translucent as she squinted at the interface. “The firing clip is broken.” She looked up to meet his expectant gaze. “When that door closes again it won’t re-open.” 

Ah. So the human’s overall course of action wasn’t to kill them. They wanted to corral what was left of the platoon, likely to take them into custody for study or information. A picture appeared in his head, turian soldiers conveniently confined in a pod that won’t fire, waiting for the humans to come along and take them away. Yet, he couldn’t help but sense something missing from the picture. They wouldn’t just want any soldier. They would want the officer in charge.

Adrien inspected the control panel again, finding a small, white switch beneath the buttons. He almost smiled, amused. The officer would have to separate from the group and activate the eject function from the outside. 

Adrien turned to the splintered remains of his platoon. Once thirty strong, only thirteen stared back at him now, waiting for orders. None of them had questioned the whereabouts of Captain Ambus and with his voice no longer in their comms, they wouldn’t. Now they watched Victus in Ambus’ place, ready to hear the First Lieutenant’s charge in the Captain’s absence. 

Victus could only think of one. 

“File inside,” he told them. “Sevenis, I’ll need control of the drone out here.” 

For just a fraction of a second, only long enough for his implication to process, Sevenis froze as did the rest of the troop. After everything they had just gone through, all the blood they shed, it was this order that made them pause.

It was somewhat touching to witness hesitancy at being asked to leave him behind. He couldn’t help but wonder if Ambus had felt it when Adrien lingered on the order himself. But the moment was quick to pass over soldiers. He didn’t need to explain the limited time they had or that the enemy was likely regrouping while they idled. Like good turians, they followed orders even if they disliked what they heard. 

Once his troops were passed the threshold and the drone was transferred to him, Adrien hit the yet-used button on the control panel. Only then did he allow himself to glance inside one last time at the men and women that had fought and bled beside him. Only then did he allow the rush of emotion to hit him. But like the door that cycled shut, he sealed away the feeling and hit the release switch. 

Nothing. 

The pod remained firmly in place. He wanted to laugh, and he might have if it wouldn’t have transferred over their open comm. Instead, he reached for his shield generator and unattached it from his armor. Then he dispensed a globule of omni-gel over the gadget and stuck it against the pod door. 

_“Sir?”_ Sevenis questioned over the comm. 

“The outside trigger doesn’t work either,” he told them as if reporting the inconvenient outcome of a faulty sprinkler head. “I’m attaching explosives.” 

_“What!?”_

“I attached my shield-generator,” he explained, crouching down to begin the process of carefully laying down a line of sticky grenades. “You’ll be fine. It’s the crash you have to worry about, but it always was.”

_“What’s going to protect you from the blast?”_

Boots echoed along the metal floor of the vessel, human voices crackling over their comms. It would seem the second half of their enemy’s plan was in effect: seize the prisoners. 

“Brace yourselves.” Adrien cut the comm to focus on the task at hand. “Activate trajectory diagnostics,” he commanded his only company. The drone flitted down to eye level and opened a screen that he had watched Magrim scroll through countless times when she thought he was asleep. Though he technically wasn’t a tech-specialist by name, Magrim had drilled several codes and commands into his head for circumstances like the one he was in. Adrien punched in the twelve-digit code that he pulled from memory and let his little friend go to work.

The footfalls grew louder. 

After a quick scan, the blue orb beamed segmented lights at the pod’s door, targeting the placement for his remaining grenades down to the centimeter. It called for seven placements. As he expected, one grenade for each corner to dislodge the pod from the vessel. Another would be placed at the foot of the door, precisely in the middle. The last two placements, however, didn’t make sense. 

The drone called for, not one, but _two_ explosives at the top of the door. But that would force the pod downward, costing altitude as it propelled from the ship. It needed to soar over the surrounding enemy and put at least three klicks between them.

“Really, you're sure?” He side-eyed the orb as if its creator crouched beside him. Absurdly, the drone rotated slightly so that its interface focused on him. This time he did allow himself to laugh, thinking of Magrim shooting him a dry look over the top of a datapad.

Spirits, he missed her. 

Alien shouting reverberated off the walls. They were closing in and he didn’t have time to argue. If the trajectory was off, and he felt certain it was, his soldiers would pay the price. Explosives granted very little room for error. 

After a moment of hesitation, he settled on his decision. “You would hate me for this,” he mumbled to himself as he set to work, his voice just loud enough for his only companion.

After quickly fastening the remaining grenades to the door, there was only one thing left to do now. Adrien lifted his arm, tinted orange by his omni-tool, aimed a closed fist at the two center grenades placed at the base of the door, and waited. He tried to ignore the sound of his heart as it beat behind his keel, seemingly in time with the growing thunder of the closing forces. Glancing at the drone that illuminated his black armor blue, he imagined his oldest friend beside him. 

The shouting was louder now, organized. They knew he was here. 

It hurt to think of Magrim now, to imagine the pain on her face when she learned of his fate. Sevenis would probably report turning the drone over to his command, which Magrim would eventually hear about. Maybe she could find comfort knowing one of her inventions was with him in the end, instrumental to the survival of his platoon. 

By the sounds of their voices, the humans had to be just down the corridor. They would want him alive, he knew, but they wouldn’t succeed in that. He was going to take each and every Spirits-damned bastard with him.

His mother’s golden gaze came to mind, regarding him with years of wisdom. It was her name that he and his father inherited, her legacy that shaped her future. Watching her mate train with their son, she must’ve known the path that awaited her son, what the name he carried meant because she had walked it herself.

Adrien could only hope his parents would find comfort in knowing how he died. That he went out with the respect of his platoon, something any turian parent would be proud of. 

As the footsteps grew louder, a second, far quieter predator crept into his mind. Behind his dark visor, Adrien’s eyes narrowed on the unassuming orb beside him. 

“Deactivate.” He ordered, but instead of blinking out, the drone remained stalwartly at his side. Adrien rapid-fired the twelve-digit code that should have bypassed the programming and cut the V.I, but no. If anything it glowed brighter than ever. 

_‘Could she have-?’_

A voice boomed through the comm of a helmet as a human soldier entered the room. Dozens of red dots danced across Adrien’s vision as more followed suit, the gleaming barrels of their rifles aiming at his head. They wouldn’t shoot right away, not when they needed to note his armor and decide if he was worth capturing. Humans had proven to be quite fond of taking prisoners. It would be their undoing in the end.

Meanwhile, more were filing in, clamoring at him in their various languages, likely orders to put his hands in the air.

Just a few more seconds. 

Angry voices reverberated the room in a roaring chorus. Guns jabbed at the air in vague gestures, both threats and promises as their owners endeavored to surround him.

_‘Victory at any cost.’_

Victus launched an incinerate from his omni-tool and his vision flashed in an array of colors. Red, orange, white, but brightest among them, blue. 

* * *

Regrettably, Adrien’s sense of smell was the first thing to return.

Foul odors filtered passed his nasal plates, assaulting his senses with a texture more akin to sludge than dry air. A sick cocktail of burning flesh, smoke, oil, and hot metal.

Adrien’s world swam into view as he cracked bleary eyes open, realizing in the same moment that his visor was shattered. At least he wasn’t blind, though he couldn’t claim to recognize his surroundings. Cinders swirled in the air like dancers celebrating the destruction that brought them to existence. Everything was sideways and upside down all at once. Or maybe it was just him. His eyes burned from the smoke but he was reluctant to close them now that he’d pried them open. He needed to get his bearings. 

He was on his back, his cowl jammed unhelpfully into what was once a computer terminal. His arms and legs were wrapped in a nest of wires, some sparking against his beaten armor. He would have to disentangle himself if he were to get up but _Spirits,_ he was so damn tired and this sideways world left him disoriented. It was hard to tell where everything was supposed to be, though he was suspicious that the floor beneath him wasn’t supposed to be there. 

Adrien scanned the wall-- floor?-- up and up. He didn’t recall the vessel’s bulkhead being so flat. Then his eyes found a huge, gaping hole in the ceiling. Black soot carpeted the edges of the chasm and warped metal bent toward the sky like a frozen Noverian wave.

Adrien snapped up-- well, tried to. Forgotten wires asserted their existence over his limbs, causing him to collapse back down under the weight of his armor. Spirits but he _was_ tired. Maybe if he rested there, just a moment, the noxious fumes would assure that he wouldn’t wake up again. There were worse ways to die, he supposed. And, given that the pod was gone and there were no blackened turian bodies raining down on him, his plan had succeeded. 

The rest was up to his team. 

A voice, spoken through an electronic mouthpiece, pierced through both the smoke that blanketed him and the haze that settled in his head. Adrien’s eyes flickered open-- not entirely sure when they had closed-- and his body went into motion. He tried to draw a breath to calm himself, knowing he needed to lie still lest he attracts attention, but putrid smog slithered down his windpipe and delivered a swift kick to his lungs.

He coughed once. Twice. He couldn’t stop. 

Adrien turned his head so he at least wouldn’t drown on the phlegm his body was forcing out, but he still felt like he was suffocating. He wormed his arms free from the wires and reached for his useless helmet. He needed it off. He needed to breathe. 

He was hacking now. 

The voice grew louder. Debris shifted and rolled under flat-booted feet. 

_‘Fuck!’_ He needed to lie still, the logical part of his brain said. With all the hot metal and plastic, his heat signature would blend in. They might never find him amongst the ash and burning wreckage. If only he could seize control of his traitorous nervous system that wanted to rid his lungs of the toxins they’d taken in.

Finally on his hands and knees, bowed to the mercy of his wracking coughs, he searched for his guns. His heart sank as his hand closed around empty air, both for his sidearm and the rifle on his back. 

Movement. 

He was noticed.

Broken glass and plastic shards were kicked aside as a figure, clad in blue armor, stormed towards him from across the room. Adrien registered the steel-toed boot as human before it connected with his face and sent his world spinning. Ash made for poor cushioning. They swirled around him, agitated from the impact of his sprawled form. Then a weight crashed down on his back, pinning his arms beneath the rubber treads of his attacker’s footwear.

_No._

In a vain attempt to collect his limbs, Adrien tried to force himself up but his legs responded about as well as jelly. Another body leaped on top of him, forcing his face into a carpet of ash. Particles invaded his senses and he coughed again, feeling his carapace protest at the restriction put on by a pair of thighs that kept it from expanding. 

Adrien turned his head to the side and flared his mandibles in a vicious display of black and bloody teeth. Five fingered hands came down on the back of his head in an attempt to restrain him, fingers coiling around his fringe and grinding roughly against the soft patch underneath, making him grimace. That was where Magrim would gently stroke in the quiet of the night, making him purr into her aural canal. 

He was angry before, but now he just felt violated. 

Adrien wrenched his arm away from whoever was struggling to hold it and quickly reached for the soldier pinning his head. It was an awkward angle and he could only grab the first bit of armor available, but his movement was quick and the human met the opposite end of the room even quicker. He then used the momentum of his throw to roll onto his back and crush the soldier beneath the weight of his armor-clad body.

More were swarming in like hungry varren, barking and snapping at the belly of their prey. Deploying his omni-blade, he sliced at anyone who came near while the man beneath him clawed desperately at the air and delivered weak punches to Adrien’s waist.

Someone grabbed his foot and he tried to kick them away. Hands closed around his omni-blade arm. Booted feet kicked at his sides and as he turned to claw at the pack that swarmed him more bodies piled on. His hip, still injured from the gunshot, roughly ground against the floor and he snarled at the pain before someone forced his face back into the cloud of ash.

A hand came down to retake the spines of his fringe, a second pressed down on his mandible and bent it awkwardly into his teeth. It was a popular hold humans utilized on turians until they could force a muzzle on their captive. It allowed them to use mandibles as shields from gnashing jaws that could otherwise close on soft skin. Effective, but only if the hold was secure enough. Fortunately for Adrien, the blood that currently slicked his mandible made for a poor grip. 

Adrien opened his mouth, heedless of the choking ash invading his throat. With a jerk of his head, he shook his mandible free and snapped his jaws shut on its captor. The hand was gloved in a flexible mesh that was difficult to pierce, but bones still splintered and popped when under enough pressure. Judging by the bloom of iron in his mouth and a resultant scream that filled him with a sense of satisfaction, he was successful. At least until the fists came down, pummeling his maxilla to try and dislodge their friend but Adrien only bit down harder.

Harder still when a black muzzle came dangling into view. 

Gone were the calculated kicks and takedowns from earlier altercations. Now his lungs burned with each hacking breath, his muscles protested every movement, and if he didn’t have a concussion before he would certainly have one now. This wasn’t a confrontation. It was a struggle and as the face mask was pulled flush to his maw, still clamped on a lump of twitchy pulp, the fight in him rose to meet the challenge. Claws raked across armor, blood pooled in his mouth, and visors shattered under the weight of his fists.

A rod of metal was roughly inserted into the corner of his mouth, the taste masked by the liquid iron that pooled around his teeth. He knew its purpose before the handler twisted it in his jaw, wrenching his maw open. As the hand pulled free-- “Fucking buzzard!”-- the mask sealed around his mouth in one fluid motion, snaps buckling behind his head with practiced ease. 

Adrien reeled, only then realizing that his right hand had been cuffed during the scuffle as he attempted to claw at the plastic casing. More bodies leaped on top of him, pinning him down as if he were a dumb, struggling animal. _Spirits_ , the demeaning nature of a muzzle damn near made him feel like one. 

It wasn’t until they finally secured his left wrist that Adrien finally succumbed to his fatigue. Dislocating a shoulder wasn’t going to help his situation. With his face still pressed to the floor, laying in the clearing he and his opponents had carved with their bodies, he panted and tried not to think of Magrim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note, I borrowed the quote:** _Strategy is a system of expedients. It is more than science, it is the translation of science into practical life, the development of an original leading thought in accordance with the ever-changing circumstances.  
>  As quoted in Government and the War (1918) by Spenser Wilkinson_
> 
> **Thank you for reading! More to come soon.  
>  Kudos and comments are always appreciated. :)  
> Happy Primarch Week, everyone!**


	2. Williams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Betas:**  
> [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl)  
> [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter)  
> [White_Aster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster).  
> [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei).  
> 

Shanxi had been liberated, or so he was told. 

General Joaquin Williams tightened his grip around a glass of water, wishing the contents were something with a little more hops. Beer poured freely in the commissary downstairs, where the drunken songs and embellished stories of celebrating marines made for an impressive cacophony. The halls practically rang with jubilant whoops and foolhardy dares, and these sounds of joy were like a siren's call to his weary heart, but he dared not join them. 

He wouldn’t be welcomed.

Joaquin sat alone on a plastic, fold-up chair, staring out the window of his unit. A bandage covered the right side of his face, concealing a long, thin wound that had long since begun to itch. And yet, the sight outside numbed the sensation in a way not even medi-gel could. Smoke slithered from the husks of dilapidated buildings, swirling into the air like snakes uncoiling from the sockets of hollow skulls. 

Funny, he would have expected victory to feel a little different than defeat. 

Streams of black pooled over treetops as far as the eye could see. Northwest, he knew, lay the smoldering ruins of a budding community lovingly called ‘Happenstance.’ Twenty-six families had begun the process of laying down roots just two months ago. He had been on the landing pad to greet each of them. Twelve of them had children. 

It had been a farming community, abundant in precious resources to sustain the colony: vat-grown meat, bountiful orchards, fields of vegetables. There was even a vineyard run by a family that promised to brew the first colony-produced vintage. 

Naturally, their enemy thought it prudent to deprive them of resources from the start. Happenstance was the first of many to suffer an orbital strike. 

Turians, they called themselves. That’s what was gleaned from translator implants, cut from the plated skulls of fallen officers. A week after the first autopsy, scientists were able to reverse engineer the tech, though it was hardly perfect. With no lips, cheeks, and completely different tongue structure, the aliens didn’t form words like his fellow man. At least nothing that was emulatable. Fortunately for him, a sign for surrender translated across species. 

A knock at the door beckoned his attention.

General Williams stood from his chair like a man aged thirty years his senior, the weight of death heavy on his shoulders. Repelled either by anger or shame for showing sympathy, not many would be knocking on his door right now. Still, there was a sense of strength provided by standing and, for the moment, he yet carried the title of General. Solidity was expected, even if forced.

_‘Twenty-six families and nothing left to bury.’_

“Enter,” he called, ignoring the jagged edge his voice had taken. The door cycled open and a thick lump hardened in his throat. It wasn’t as though he was shocked to see his visitor. It was the implication behind the visit.

Kastanie Drescher, Admiral of the Second Fleet and the proclaimed Hero of Shanxi. A stern woman with gray hair neatly tied in a knot at the back of her neck. Hardened gray eyes swept his room, likely noting his unmade cot and every wrinkle in his unwashed uniform. Predictably, her gaze made its final descent upon the swaths of bandages over his face. 

“Admiral.” Williams managed to salute.

“At ease, General,” she replied with a voice far too curt to instill anything of the sort. Still, Williams shifted into parade rest and waited for his career to come grinding to a halt, and that’s if he was lucky. Already, he was going down in history as the first general to surrender a whole damn colony. Soon, he’d have to face the disappointment of his family and the tight smiles they’d utilize for concealment.

His good name-- his _life--_ was over as he knew it.

The Admiral paced toward his window, her arms folded behind her back. “Ugly,” she commented grimly, though he could no longer see her eyes. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, not entirely sure if she was referring to the state of his face or the burning ruins. The statement could apply to both, he supposed. It was then he realized the glass was still in his hand, balanced behind his back. Looking to the desk across the room, he decided it would make a suitable surface. He’d have to move his stack of books-- one of the few luxuries his previous captors had allowed-- to make room. 

Moving to his desk, he shifted his books aside, ensuring that his Bible rested safely atop the pile. Setting the glass down, he ignored the ripples caused by his trembling hand. When he returned his attention to the Admiral, she was still at the window with her back to him. An impenetrable wall of Alliance blue. 

“You were the garrison’s commander, I understand,” she said, never looking at him. 

The ease behind ‘were’ made him long for a swig of something strong, but there was nothing like that to be found in his room. Well, other than rubbing alcohol in his med-kit, though he wasn’t quite desperate enough for that. Yet. Instead, Joaquin straightened his spine and faced his inevitably. “I was,” he affirmed. 

“And you surrendered the colony.” It wasn’t a question, and he was thankful that she didn’t see his grimace. Though, he suspected that she knew it was there.

“I did.” 

“Explain.”

He was just able to suppress a weary sigh. Until now, few had bothered for an explanation. He was labeled a yellow-bellied traitor the second he raised his hands and stepped out into the open, placing his fate and that of the colony in the clawed hands of hostile aliens. 

“Do you know the story of Dunkirk, ma’am?” Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t that. The Admiral twisted to direct her steely gaze at him. He pressed on. “During World War II, it was the evacuation site for over 330,000 Allied troops. They were cut off by enemy forces.” A beat, then, “As we were, ma’am.” He met the Admiral’s eyes, cold in their neutrality. “The turians wiped out city blocks rather than allow our resupplies. Civilians were dying if they were lucky and starving if they weren’t. I saw an opportunity to spare as many lives as I could, and I took it.” 

“And the cost?” She paused to wait for a rebuttal, but he held his silence and refused to look away. Wheeling on the spot, she took a single, measured step towards him.“In 1940, the British Expeditionary Force had to leave nearly all of their tanks, vehicles, weapons, and equipment behind.” Another step. “Thousands of French troops were left to be taken prisoner.” Another step, a lioness closing in on her prey but Williams wouldn’t provide her with the thrill of the chase. He wondered if she could hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “Six British and three French destroyers were sunk along with two hundred small craft.” 

“In exchange for _thousands_ of lives,” he countered, endeavoring to keep a traitorous waver from his voice. They were nearly face to face now. “Yes, ma’am.” 

The Admiral was quiet but her stare remained unyielding as if scanning for an ounce of weakness in his resolve. After a long, arduous moment she said, “Upon your surrender, those aliens occupied Shanxi for a week, had access to our systems for a _week_. I wonder what they learned, don’t you?” There was no mockery to the question, which somehow felt worse than if there had been. “Do they have coordinates to our other colonies, names of officers, our space stations, our trade routes... _Earth_?” 

And damned if his shoulders didn’t deflate then. Of course he had considered that in his decision. Until now, the only signs of sentient life in the galaxy were restricted to the abandoned Martian ruins and the dormant relays. Only local fauna called their colony worlds home. Mankind thought themselves alone in the galaxy. They had firewalls and encryptions in place, sure, but they wouldn’t last long against a race that was far more technologically advanced. “I… I don’t know, ma’am.”

“Neither do I, General.” At that, she turned and made her way toward the door, stopping just at the threshold. “One of their Lieutenants was captured this morning and is being transported here as we speak. Further reinforcements will be deployed and we’ll be taking the critically wounded back to Earth.”

Williams found himself holding his breath, waiting for the order that would relieve him of his post and strip him of his command. 

“I will be returning to Arcturus Station to gather intel and prepare for the next stage. Until then, General,” the door cycled open. “I expect answers.” 

The door closed between them with his command miraculously intact. In the quiet of his empty space, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was blessed or cursed.

* * *

By the time Alliance shuttles began their descent, there was little in the way of light that wasn’t filtered through a haze of smoke. Multiple fires, ignited by the last vestiges of enemy resistance, persisted long into the day. As the aircraft touched down, the cobalt paint blended with the screen, making it only visible by the electric-blue energy igniting from the propeller jets. 

Poor visibility marred his sightlines, preventing Williams from seeing who exited the craft. The familiar rattle of guns and the scrape of boots as soldiers met the ground. A gleam of navy here and a five-fingered wave there. Then the first turian emerged, stooping to avoid hitting their spiny fringe on the hatch.

One by one, the hulking captives were escorted through the smoky fog and lined up for inspection before incarceration. Admittedly, they were more akin to monstrous nightmares than POWs. Fortunately, their wrists were bound by magnetic cuffs that kept their hands pinned to the front of their pointy hips. Additionally, their claws would have been cut and filed down to nubs. 

The laceration on his face stung as if in protest to the memory of what those claws could do. It was only by the grace of God that he hadn’t lost an eye. Glancing up from the cuffs, Williams grimaced at the muzzles that had been forced on the detainees. Within those jaws laid a row of long, razor-sharp teeth and they weren’t afraid to use them when left with no other options. 

The muzzles were a necessary evil, he reasoned, though he took no pleasure in seeing them. Soldiers would pile onto a struggling alien and secure their jaws as if they were gators in a Florida swamp. Williams could say what he wanted about their raptor-like enemy, but he couldn’t deny their sentience, not after watching them pull their wounded from the field. They were empathetic to their own, even if they were ruthless in their tactics. 

People even if they weren’t human. 

So far, none of the captives were of any high rank. Certainly nothing that the admiralty would be interested in taking with them. They wanted captains, colonels, generals...

A set of golden eyes pierced the thick fog as the twelfth POW emerged from the smoke. Without a doubt, _that_ was the Lieutenant the Admiral mentioned, but it wasn’t the armor that declared his rank. On the contrary, his armor was beaten to hell compared to the others. No, it was the way his attention swept across the scene, mentally cataloging every detail available. It was the weeping bullet wound in his hip that should have hindered his step, and yet he walked as if he didn’t feel it. It was the way his eyes lingered a beat longer on the backs of his fellow captives, an officer examining the state of his charges. 

Williams narrowed his eyes. 

It was the constant, low tremor resonating from his muzzled jaws. It was the dried, _red_ blood that painted the left side of his chin and mandible.

Where the other turians had two marines at their sides, four soldiers flanked the Lieutenant, watching him warily. None more so than Private Kurt ‘Tater’ Lindeman who nursed a bandaged hand close to his chest. A dark stain had long since bloomed through the wrappings, evidence of extensive trauma. With his good hand, Lindeman kept a pistol trained on the plated head of their charge, lip so curled that his gums were exposed to the smoky air. It was little wonder what happened to his hand. 

Upon escorting their captive to the lineup, the soldier at the head of the four-man company, Sergeant Jorge Ordonez, snapped off a salute. Thus far, he was the only one to do so, Williams quietly noted. “Sir,” he said, “This is the Lieutenant we recovered from the _Fraulein_.” 

_Fraulein_ had been one of the first vessels to make it to Shanxi upon colonization. It had since been stored at Arcturus Station to vacate space for more advanced ships that had been brought through the relay since then. The decision to scuttle her was not made lightly, or so he was informed. It was a settlement made by the Admiral to divide turian patrols and take them out in the field, away from fortifications.

“Very good,” said Williams, acknowledging the salute with one of his own. “Were all these POWs collected from that location?”

“No, sir. He’s--”

“If I may interject,” drawled a southern UNAS accent. Lideman stepped forward, cutting Ordonez off. “ _Sir-_ ” he tacked on. “I can’t help but feel a bit got away with. These are _monsters_. _Not_ prisoners of war.” 

Sergeant Ordonez wheeled on the insubordination. “You’re out of line, Private.”

“Out of line?” Lindeman seethed. “Look around you!” He gestured at their surroundings with his bloody, bandaged hand. “ _This_ is out of line and _they_ did this. _They_ attacked us.” The pistol gleamed as it was used to punctuate each ‘ _they’_ , the barrel never straying far from its target. Lindeman rounded on Williams, eyes so wide that red veins were visible in the white. “Sir, this _skullface_ is responsible for the deaths of _fifty_ good soldiers and those are just the ones we know about. The most this devil deserves is a firing squad.” 

The Private’s eyes swiveled to where they all knew was a sensitive spot on a turian; the waist. A hint at where he clearly thought a line of bullets should go. If the large turian noticed, or cared, he didn’t show it. His hawk-like eyes stared over their heads, watching everything else except the irate man that looked about ready to follow through with his line of thinking.

“And how do you suppose we get answers from him if he’s dead?” Williams countered.

“Oh…” Lindeman breathed as if relishing the taste of something good in his mouth. “Don’t tempt me. If it’s answers you want, I’ll get answers from him. Just give me twenty minutes alone--” 

“Need I remind you of the conventions on how to treat--?”

“I _know_ the rules,” Lindeman snarled through gritted teeth. “To enforce ethical, _humane_ treatment of enemy POWS. Does that--” he gestured with his gun at the alien’s muzzled face. The motion encompassing the menacing growl that vibrated the air and the angry, golden eyes that glowered over the top of the mask. “Look _human_ to you?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the soldiers around them, bringing a satisfied smirk to Lindeman’s freckled face. It looked odd beneath the wild look in his eyes. The war had taken its toll on him, as it had for them all. Space exploration began with dreaming, thousands of years of humans staring into the heavens and wondering, _‘How did this begin?’_ and _‘What else is out there?’_ The thought of encountering life was always there. _Someone_ built those Martian ruins, but none of them expected to face a horror like this upon leaving Earth.

Until now, the only war humanity had fought was against their own. 

As the murmur intensified, it felt as though the ground beneath Williams’ feet had turned to quicksand and he was sunk to his waist. He was a hair's-breadth from mutiny and if he didn’t tread carefully, he would drown.

“I know you’re angry, Private Lindeman-- we’re all angry!” Williams pressed quickly over a dismissed scoff from the enlist. “Regardless, it is imperative that we uphold that which makes us human. These are our captives and they _will_ be treated as such.” 

“Sir!-” 

“They will be put in _clean_ holding cells, their muzzles removed, offered water, and fed twice a day.” 

“But-”

“And since you seem to be so interested in giving orders lately, _Private_ Lindeman.” The young man winced at the title. “You may decide who gets to take _his--_ ” Williams nodded toward the motionless, two-meter mass of pure rage. “--muzzle off.” 

A second murmur erupted, though at least this one carried far more apprehension than the previous. After a curt “dismissed,” Williams about-faced and moved off toward the holding cells, hearing the collective movement of both digitigrade and plantigrade boots shuffling behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter) for sharing her boot camp stories with me and inspiring Taters' name. XD


	3. Victus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **My wonderful betas readers:**   
>  [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl)   
>  [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter)   
>  [White_Aster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster)   
>  [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei)   
> 

From his time spent during the Shanxi occupation, Adrien had become quite familiar with the layout of the prefabs and buildings erected by the humans. Peppered across the planet, they all followed the same basic plan. While Adrien hadn't been through this particular base yet, he was familiar with it all the same.

One by one, he and the other-- spirits, he never thought he'd be one-- POWs were marched through the base. Adrien followed behind, thrumming his vocals for subtle status reports. They all seemed relatively healthy as far as it went. Nothing that was permanent. Some had wounds that would need tending but they all walked tall with their fringes up. Good. Upholding morale was never more important. He would need them to have clear heads if they were to get through this.

It was hard to tell how long the humans had been on Shanxi-- a couple years, at least. Long enough to establish colonies, farms, refineries, and when the time called for it, prisons. Undoubtedly, they were established for holding upstarts, maybe pens for drunks to spend the night within. They certainly were convenient for storing human POWs when the turians rolled in. 

Now, it would seem, the tables had turned. 

Adrien didn't need to speak the language to know where they were being led. There were only two possibilities and the first one would have been done outside where blood couldn't stain white-tiled floors. As they approached the staircase that would take them down to the holding cells, the smell of hot metal filtered through his muzzle. That was new. 

Adrien hesitated at the top of the stairs but a rifle barrel jabbed him in the back, a warning to keep moving. They descended into a large, well-lit warehouse divided into five aisles, lined with six individual jail cells. If he counted right, and he was sure he had, there were thirty captives. As they paraded into the facility, humans shouted and poked with their rifles to split the long line into five small ones to be dispersed down the separate corridors.

As they trooped down the hallway, turians peeled from the line, one by one. Adrien endeavored to make eye contact with each of them as he passed, thrumming a salute that only they would hear and his heart swelled as each and every one of them returned it. They vibrated through his cowl and feet with every step, following him down the corridor even as the humans caught on and started shouting. 

They were in this together.

At the third-to-last cage, a beige turian with green face paint separated from the line to enter his prison. Prompted by the show of solidarity by their brothers and sisters, the soldier turned to meet Adrien’s gaze, his vocals hailing obeisance to the present lieutenant. If not for the rifle barrel at his back, Adrien would have frozen on the spot. 

_‘Kuril.’_

Finally, reaching the last cell, Adrien approached what would be his home away from home. It was a three-sided metal box, only the vertical bars at the entrance broke the solid, paneled walls. Naturally, it was outfitted for a human occupant with a sleeping mat that was way too small, a sink he would have to hunch over, and a toilet, sans any privacy, that certainly would be the cause for some very awkward moments. Installed above the sleeping mat, the source of the hot metal smell became clear. 

The humans had hastily welded a ring and cable system to the wall, a metal collar dangling at the end. Judging by the height and positioning, it was to go around a turian neck to keep them from reaching the bars. Simple but effective. Adrien had wondered how they expected their primitive human cells to hold a turian. The gaps of the bars were too narrow to reach through, but they could be easily bent. At least the length of the cable would allow some movement-- he could likely make use of the toilet and sleeping mat on the floor. Reaching the sink might be challenging, he noted with a frown. 

Adrien took all this in as he was marched to the wall, and rifle jabs prompted him to face the bars. He resisted the urge to close his eyes, to block out the degradation he felt as the collar locked around his neck with a click. Upon closer inspection, the thick, galvanized cable attached to his collar ran through a ring on the wall, leveled at about his height, and traveled down to where it attached to the floor. He would only be able to move so far from the wall before his head would be pulled back, removing the use of his back muscles, should he wish to take a swing at his captors once his cuffs were removed. 

One of the humans gripped the cable and pulled, yanking Adrien back to the metal wall. He tried not to give them the satisfaction of seeing him wince as his fringe smarted against the steel. He trained his eyes on a space beyond the bars as his armor was peeled off, piece by piece. They wanted him as vulnerable as possible.

He tried not to shiver as the air-conditioning chilled his exposed hide. These bases were kept warmer when the turians had been occupying them. Regretfully, the humans had caught on to that. He watched as his armor, charred and dented, was tossed away unceremoniously. How had he survived that blast?

From his peripheral, a hand rose toward his face and Adrien glanced at it. The appendage froze midair, inches from the clasp of his muzzle. The owner gazed up and up, meeting his eyes, and though Adrien could see the effort to conceal the fear, it was there all the same-- a small fire in a forced face of indifference. Of course it was within his best interest to let them remove the muzzle, but Adrien decided to indulge in fanning that flame. He couldn't help himself. 

He growled, feeling the mask vibrate against his maw, intensifying the sound, and he relished in forcing the feet of his quarry as the soldier took a step back. Then the man shook his head at his three other comrades and uttered a string of words, an expletive or two mixed in. Adrien was good at catching those.

The four of them decided to retreat to the outside of his cell where they began… deliberating? They gestured at Adrien, speaking in hushed whispers. Then one of them threw his hands up and disappeared for a moment but then reappeared with thin-- they looked like sticks or straws that jutted from his fist.

Adrien cocked his head. What the fuck were they doing now? They weren't… they were. They were drawing sticks. He watched as the four of them took turns making their selection until the loser became evident. Disappointment collapsed the features on the man's squishy face as his comrades laughed. They gestured and pointed in what could only be assumed was encouragement as the loser glanced nervously between them and Adrien.

It was like watching a timid pyjak approach a varren, stopping every now and again to test for changes in the air. Adrien kept his breathing steady, his subvocals rumbling on every exhale, and he watched every muscle twitch in the approaching human. From behind the man, the other soldiers readied their weapons and trained them on the turian. When the human managed to muster his courage to close the gap and reach for the clasps, he spoke to Adrien with a firm tone, likely a warning. It was unneeded, really, the red dots that danced across his vision spoke for themselves. 

As the mask loosened, Adrien entertained the idea of snapping his jaws at the soldier, but it would likely be the last thing he ever did. The guns would fire and the other POWs would be on their own. Retribution would taste sweet, but he had a job to do. So, banishing the violent yet tantalizing, thoughts from his mind, Adrien remained still and allowed the man to retreat without harm. 

It was only after his cell cycled shut and the humans left that Adrien allowed himself to sink to the mat. It felt good to be free of that demoralizing muzzle, and he took a moment to flare his stiff mandibles and work cramps from his jaw.

Now, what next? 

Surveillance. Doubtless, the humans were watching and likely installed their own tech upon retaking the base. Every move he made would be monitored and evaluated, so every motion would need to be calculated and used to best effect. Adrien glanced around, hiding the intent behind a show of stretching his neck and working his muscles beneath the metal collar. If he hadn’t been divested of his omni-tool, the search would be far easier, but alas, he only had the use of his naked eyes.

Normally, he would split the room into quadrants so he could search each place meticulously, but that option was as limited as his movement. The next step would be checking the outlets or other power sources, but there weren’t any in sight so that left searching for unusual duplicates-- _‘Ah.’_

Adrien endeavored not to look directly at either one of the smoke detectors that he spotted. One was installed in the ceiling just outside of his cell, and another was inside with him. He wagered the one in the hallway was real and the decoy was positioned where it wouldn’t be impeded by the bars. It would also provide the viewer with 360 degrees of visual access. 

The enemy had the upper hand on intel, it was time to take stock on what he had.

Adrien stretched and lowered himself to the mat, favoring his left side as the bullet wound in his hip protested the pressure. That was another issue. From what he could see beneath the caked blood and soot, his armor and shields had absorbed most of the impact, but the bullet still managed to punch a shallow hole high on his hip crest. Movement was painful, but still possible. However, he would need medical attention soon, lest infection set in. But he doubted the humans would know what to give him. It would be nice to at least clean it, but that was a problem for another time.

Pressing the back of his cowl flush with the wall, it would appear he was simply making himself comfortable by creating as much slack in the cable as possible. Closing his eyes, he focused on every vibration that reverberated through the steel, tingling the lining of his cowl. Deciphering the origins of each vibration was nigh impossible as there were hundreds, though some were more obvious than others-- heavy, booted footsteps upstairs, metal cables grinding against steel. The unmistakable thrum of subvocals. 

Adrien flicked a mandible, pleased that his neighbor seemed to have the same idea. Thrumming his vocals in return, Adrien stated his name and ID number, though he doubted how much of that would be received. Subharmonics were meant to send vibrations through the air, not solid steel, something the humans were evidently aware of.

Adrien scratched his hide beneath the metal collar, a cold reminder to his limitation. It would be nice to approach the bars and easily speak with his neighbor, though that was another purpose for his restraints. If they could lock every turian in a soundproof room, Adrien was sure they would have. Instead, they made do by keeping their captives where they couldn’t see each other, where they couldn’t communicate without speaking aloud.

They wanted to hear the turian language, they wanted to record it, decipher it, and learn it. They wanted information. 

A name thrummed through the metal, but it was almost as if it was spoken underwater. It was garbled, and Adrien only caught the first part. 

_“Gallio In...”_

Full sentences weren’t going to be an option, but maybe one-word answers. 

The galvanised cable scraped against his plates as Adrien rolled to face the wall. Thrumming his last name against the steel, he hoped his neighbor would get the message. _“Victus.”_

A beat. Then a name tingled along his cowl. _“Invectus.”_

Gallio Invectus. That wasn’t a name he was familiar with, not that it mattered. He seemed capable enough if he was already searching for sources of communication. Adrien wondered if he could reach his old friend one stall over. 

_“Kuril!”_ He thrummed and waited. After several seconds, he tried again. _“Kuril!”_

This time, he received a reply, though it was from Gallio. _“Kuril?”_

Adrien frowned. As expected, his vocals could only vibrate the steel so far. His friend remained out of reach. 

_“Neighbor,”_ he replied.

_“Kuril!”_ Gallio boomed, and Adrien pressed himself harder against the wall. That wasn’t meant for him. Gallio was trying to get his neighbor’s attention. _“Victus!”_

After a moment, the wall came alive with subharmonics, and Adrien squeezed his eyes tight, straining to decipher the nuances in each buzz. Were they trying to form sentences? It certainly wasn’t a language he was familiar with. All at once, the buzzing stopped, and Adrien stiffened, waiting though he wasn’t sure for what. 

Then a series of vibrations hit his cowl, not words, but sounds. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was Invectus’ approximation of an _augury_. A message courtesy of the only other turian in the prison who would know the significance, know the story of seven recruits chirping secret signals at each other during boot camp drills.

It was all Adrien could do not to grin. 

Kuril was there, and he was ready.


	4. Williams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **My wonderful betas readers:**  
> [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl)  
> [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter)  
> [White_Aster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster)  
> [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei)  
>   
>  **Note:** I really should have added this note to the last chapter, but forgot. Kuril and Victus aren't the only canon turians. Gallio Invectus is the Hierarchy General in Joker's comic, _He Who Laughs Best._ Though, I had to give him a first name.

Williams awoke the following morning feeling about as sunny as the smoke-choked colony that greeted him. He took his breakfast alone, feeling the accusations rest upon his shoulders as he filled his tray in the cafeteria, and it followed him while he sought a welcoming table. Not even Sergeant Ordonez would meet his gaze, so Williams settled for the privacy of his office. 

As he sipped from his mug, barely tasting the cinnamon notes of his favorite coffee, he read an email from Admiral Drescher. It reported total silence on the enemy’s side, though the Admiral was not accepting that as a victory. They knew so little about their enemy. Where did they come from? Assuming they had colonies as humans do, where were they? Had they witnessed the extent of the turian force, or were they gearing for a return? 

He was reminded of the ferocity he heard in the growl of that turian lieutenant, and the golden eyes that appraised them like a lion sizing up a rival, scanning for weaknesses. 

No. They hadn’t seen the last of the turians yet. They likely hadn’t even seen their worst. 

A knock on the door drew his attention from his monitor. Williams set his cup beside his haptic interface and stood from his desk to face the door. 

“Enter,” he ordered, straightening his shoulders.

The door opened to reveal Sergeant Ordonez, who stepped over the threshold and snapped a salute. The tightness of the man’s jaw betrayed the nature of whatever news he had brought with him. 

“General,” he began, falling into parade rest. “There’s a matter that requires your attention.” 

* * *

Williams was led to the outskirts of the base. Tucked just inside the treeline was a tall, steel monolith that was dwarfed only by the towering forest that shielded it. The smokescreen that enveloped the canopies provided further coverage, but red lights that inlaid the metal surface became apparent within a certain distance, even through the dirty haze.

Throughout Williams’ two year station on Shanxi, he had never come across anything like this before, not even during the war. This certainly wasn’t there before the invasion. 

The patrol that had made the discovery still lingered, watching the structure with wary eyes. According to Sergeant Ordonez, it was found no more than ten minutes prior to Williams being alerted and engineers across the base had already begun testing. Lights winked beneath the blanket of smoke and fog, teasing without providing any hints to their purpose or what secrets lay hidden within the alien tower. 

Their enemy’s forgein technology was truly a terrifying marvel.

“What do the scans show?” Williams asked, slowly circling the obelisk. An inscription was burned into a control panel at about eye level, alien and indecipherable, but unmistakably turian. Turian writing looked like a scratch-work series of claw marks. Of course, they had more sophisticated tools for writing than their talons, but the appearance remained the same. Linguists have suggested that the style of their alphabet could be remnants of an earlier age. Perhaps, at one time, they used their claws for communication as well as fighting.

Sergeant Ordonez moved alongside him, his brown eyes flickering between the tower and the data interface in his hand. Notes scrolled across the screen as engineers across the colony rapid-fired their findings. “Explosives scan came back negative,” he reported. “Nothing beneath the surface either and satellites aren’t picking up any signals leaving the atmosphere. I’ve put in an order to test out firewalls.” 

“Very good,” Williams nodded. “Any cameras or surveillance?” 

“No, sir, and it isn’t emitting radiation or any sort of signal--” The Sergeant broke off and Williams turned to him sharply. “Correction, sir. It is sending a signal… or rather it’s receiving signals.” 

“From?” prompted Williams. 

“From each of our computers.”

“On the base?” 

A shadow crossed Ordonez’s face as he met William’s gaze. “On the colony.”

Williams’ stomach dropped like an icy stone as an array of possibilities flickered through his mind, each more sinister than the last. Was it collecting more information on them? Their movements? Could it install some kind of virus into their systems, cutting communication with contacts off the colony? 

“Sergeant,” Williams addressed, the gravity of his voice snapping Ordonez to attention. “I want a patrol stationed here at all hours. If this thing so much as blinks a different color, I want to know about it.”

“Yes, sir.” 

"The prisoners' chips?" So far, every turian they'd encountered was outfitted with a technological wonder. A chip, sometimes inserted directly into the skin, sometimes a bracelet, and sometimes a slot in the armor, provided the wearer with a multitude of utilities. Weapons, shields, EMPs, scanners, communicators, 3D printers, and that was only what had been observed in the field. The secrets within these confiscated devices would likely take weeks, at _least_ , to crack.

"All removed and stored with their weapons."

Williams resisted the urge to rub a hand through his thinning hair. He wished the Admiral had stuck around long enough to take the weapons and chips with her for study-- not leave them there. Granted, studying the way those chips interacted with this… thing could be beneficial. Still, he didn't like the prisoners so close to them, even locked up as they were.

"What are the states of the other prisons?"

Sergeant Ordonez scrolled through his notes and frowned. "Some took severe structural damage, others are without plumbing, electricity, or all the above. Ours is the only habitable one."

Damn. Moving the turians wasn't an option.

“I want immediate repairs done on the most salvageable facility."

"Yes, sir."

"And a dampening field on every computer lab."

The sergeant nodded sharply. "Already done, sir."

"Good." In the meantime, the Admiral would need to be contacted. They needed information and they needed it now. Mankind may have won a battle, but the war was far from over and until they could rapidly close the technological gap, they would never win. Williams closed his fist as the following order left his mouth. “Begin interrogations today.” 

* * *

Even though Jin had risen high into the smoky atmosphere, its yellow rays tinted crimson in the haze, the secrets of the pillar continued to elude the Alliance, and their captives were just as secretive. Setting aside the fact that they’d yet to crack the code on the turian language, and likely wouldn’t for several weeks at least, the prisoners were resistant to most of their methods. 

Covered in tough hide and plate, physical force wasn’t ideal, unless they resorted to more barbaric methods. Waterboarding, for example, was a war crime best left in the history books, as far as Williams was concerned. Yet, something about fighting non-human creatures seemed to bring out the monsters in them all. Soldiers under commands of other generals, stationed at other bases, stooped to such methods when the situation grew truly desperate. When colonies were cut off from each other, the Alliance, resources, and families, when bases were obliterated and they needed to know which ones would be hit next. And it was proven to be an effective route, barbaric as it was.

They weren’t there yet, and by the grace of God, Williams hoped they never would be. Going down in history as the Surrendering General was one thing. That was a stain on his career that would fade in time. Torture, on the other hand, left a mark on the soul that would never come clean. 

Photos of the pillar were held up before the inmates, watching for reactions or any sign of cooperation, any light in the eyes to hint at their willingness. Alliance soldiers would point to different spots on the tower, waiting for reactions. So far, his soldiers were inclined to stay within his rules, the use of physical force would be utilised when necessary, but only on his order and thus far they were doing well to avoid it. 

Williams sipped from his third cup of coffee that day. As of late, sleep had been impossible and fatigue was pummeling his daylight hours. How he wished he could return home and embrace his family, hold his baby granddaughter once she’s born. He wondered who she would take after more. Would she inherit the Williams toes or the cleft in her mother’s chin?

Desperate to pull himself from his thoughts, lest he succumb to the longing, Williams pulled up his surveillance of the prison. He froze, but only for a moment, just long enough to register the small mob of Alliance soldiers surrounding the turian Lieutenant. Coffee sloshed from his mug as he hastily set it down and hurried out the door. 

The prison was a short walk from his quarters, beyond a corridor, across the mess hall, and down several flights of stairs. Ignoring the three stationed guards at the entrance, Williams flung the door open, inhaled once to catch his breath, and shouted: “What in God’s name is going on down here?!”

The initial kerfuffle he heard upon opening the door ceased immediately. After descending the steps, he reached the bottom platform just in time to catch six privates scrambling from the furthest cell like children escaping a puddle of spilled milk. As the cell door closed with a loud _clang_ behind them, they looked about as guilty, too.

General Williams squared his shoulders, striding forward with the authority his title allowed. Passing the cells of the other prisoners, he felt each pair of glaring, hawk-like eyes on his shoulders. One turian, he noticed, sat with his hands over his aural canal, blocking out the yelps and screams that William’s had just stopped.

“Soldiers!” he snapped, and their spines instantly straightened. “I believe I asked a question that I have yet to receive an answer to! Private Lindeman!” The General glared at the Private in question, catching the man as he withered. “Answer me.”

“Interrogating the captives, sir, as you ordered,” said the Private, reluctant to step out from the protective barricade offered by his fellows. 

Williams glanced at the turian housed within the vacated cell. His plated body lay prone on the ground against the wall at which he was attached. Blue blood seeped from the cracks of his facial plates and angry lumps swelled at his side.

This was no interrogation. 

After scanning the damage of their captive, Williams observed the sorry lot for the cause. He spied a long, rectangular bump against Lindeman’s front pants pocket, shadowed in the navy blue material. 

“Private Lindeman.” Williams dropped his voice. “Step forward and turn out your pockets.” 

Silence followed the order, and while his men stared dutifully ahead, he could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, wondering what to do, what to say.

“Private--!”

“It’s a wrench!” The young man snapped, finally stepping out from behind his human barricade. “It’s a wrench, sir. You ordered us to get answers from these beasts, and yet we’re left with no tools to do it-- to do our jobs.” Lindeman’s good hand closed into a fist at his side and his face bloomed a cherry red. “You expect us to pantomime with monsters capable of inflicting--” he brandished his bandaged hand-- “this kind of damage!”

The rest of the men said nothing, and yet their silence was deafening. As Lindeman seethed with hatred, his shallow breaths filling the space between them, they stood as a unit. The grimness in their faces mirrored each other, both physically and internally. 

And Williams, he realized, was the foe they were united against. 

“Return to your barracks,” said Williams, endeavoring to keep the unease from his voice. “And await further orders.” 

As the soldiers shuffled away with barely a ‘yes sir’ from any of them, Williams returned his attention to the Lieutenant, finding the turian still on his side, panting, watching them quietly, eyes hazed with pain. 

Williams wandered to the end of the hall where several cases of water lay conveniently stacked against the far wall. After extracting a bottle from a pre-opened package, he returned to the cell and proffered it to the turian. Yellow eyes regarded the bottle with equal parts interest and suspicion before returning to meet his gaze. The glance was quick, but it was enough to clarify a truth.

“See?” Williams made a show of removing the cap and allowing water to pour into his open mouth without touching his lips. “It’s safe.” Replacing the cap, he laid the bottle on its side and rolled it between the bars to the Lieutenant. It bounced lightly against the turian’s prominent keel but didn’t roll out of range. 

“And this, I understand it works for your people, as well.” He withdrew his small, emergency tube of medi-gel from a compartment at his belt, along with a pocket knife. 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen to you,” said Williams, removing the cap on the tube and pressing the tip of his blade into the aluminum seal, breaking it. “I should have been more aware of _who_ would conduct the interrogations.”

Laying the blade against his forearm, he dragged it just hard enough to draw blood before smearing a small amount of gel over the new cut. “But I’d be hard-pressed to find a soldier here that wasn’t angry. Shanxi was supposed to be a new step for humanity, another chapter in our history. We colonized this planet to establish fresh roots for our families.” He couldn’t say why he was telling his captive such a fruitless story. It wasn’t as though it would be comprehended. Perhaps it was his way of coming to terms with what happened under his watch… or an excuse. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

By the time the medi-gel tube joined the water bottle inside the cell, his self-inflicted cut had dried. Accepting the demonstration, the turian slowly sat up and clumsily reached for the water bottle. With his hands bound, the motion looked awkward and unnatural, far removed from the severe Lieutenant that had marched in, a perpetual growl rumbling on every breath. He looked younger now, which was an odd thing to notice.

The facial plates appeared thinner than other, more high-ranking turians Williams had encountered. Perhaps that was an aspect that changed with age? Human skin grew thin and wrinkled while turian plates grew thick and cracked?

There was also a bright alertness to the turian’s gaze that Williams associated with youth. A light like the one in the eyes of his son back home. 

“Wish I could ask how old you are,” Williams commented as the alien leaned his back against the wall and began trickling water over the bullet wound on his left hip. He recalled noticing it when the turian was first brought in, not that they could do much about it beyond offering a little medi-gel.

During the turian occupation, the Alliance was able to observe the alien supplies that were brought in. Even now, there were storage rooms full of ration paste and bars that the turians would regularly eat, though the medical supplies were still beyond understanding.

Fatal or critically injured soldiers were taken for study by physicians aboard Arcturus. He liked to think the studies were being conducted as ethically as possible, though a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if that was just wishful thinking. Yet, until they had answers on how exactly the alien body worked, they had no way of knowing what medicines did what, dosages, and means of administration. That medi-gel was a viable option was simply something observed in the field. 

The Lieutenant ignored him, focusing on the task at hand, cleaning the blood and dirt from the area so he could inspect the severity of his wound. Fortunately, it didn’t look deep. The armor he worn had likely taken the brunt of the impact. 

Picking up the medi-gel, the turian gave it an experimental sniff, the plates on his strange nose twitching. Certainly, he had to know what it was even if he had never used it. The Alliance had stocks of the stuff all over the colony. Medi-gel was one of the first substances to be seized and tested by the turians. Maybe healing was the one thing the humans were more technologically advanced in.

Williams frowned, oddly saddened by the thought. Were they still so far from cures to terminal illnesses? Were weapons of war truly the focus for advancement in this new galactic world?

Tentatively, the turian squeezed a droplet of gel onto the back of his hand and watched, likely waiting for a reaction. After a moment, he opted to apply a small amount to the wound, and audibly sighed as the anesthetic apparently took effect. It was oddly reminiscent of a child receiving a drop of the over-the-counter stuff on a skinned knee. Williams smiled.

“If I was a betting man, I’d wager you to be around my son’s age. Thank the Lord, he isn’t stationed here, but I miss him.” Williams closed his hand around one of the bars, an anchor to relieve some weight from his feet. “He’s home on paternity leave with a baby on the way, if you can believe it. A little girl.” Inside the cell, the turian dutifully ignored him, applying the same treatment to the rest of his more recent wounds. Williams felt the smile slide from his face. “I wonder if you have kids somewhere. Parents? A partner? Are they as worried about you as my family is for me?” 

Slowly, Williams’ elbow bent and his arm folded against the bars. So many choices, so many consequences, each a weight on his shoulders that pushed his brow to rest against his forearm. “At least, I assume they’re worried for me. I haven’t been able to speak with them in months, but I know they’re watching the news. They’re hearing… the stories.” 

Staring at the floor, he listened to the subtle movements of the jail’s occupant, still applying gel to every painful spot on his body. If only the inside could be so easily soothed. 

“I’ve barely spoken to anyone in months,” he confessed, a wry smile splitting his mouth. “You’re basically the first, and you can’t even understand me.” A sudden quietude drew his attention up from the floor, and he found himself being watched. Intelligent eyes that made Williams second-guess his comment, but then dismissed the thought when the turian held up an empty water bottle, a silent request. “Of course,” he huffed a laugh. 

Retrieving a second water bottle, Williams replicated the safety demonstration before bending to roll the offering through the bars. He then picked up the discarded one that was tossed over. Then the Lieutenant surprised him with a noise, a guttural, whistling sound Williams had come to associate with turian language. It was the first sound he’d heard from the Lieutenant that wasn’t a growl or a snarl. Did he dare take it as a ‘thank you’?

The General replied with a tap of his knuckles against the bars and turned to leave. As he passed the third cell, the back of his neck prickled, and Williams glanced up. Within the cell, a male turian, beige with green facial tattoos, was staring at him intently. The same turian that had been covering his head when Williams had first entered the prison.

Williams slowed, meeting the gaze without stopping. As he passed the cell, the beige turian’s stare was replaced by a fourth one. Then the fifth. All down the line, each and every captive watched for his approach and followed him with their eyes as he passed. When he reached the staircase, a sickly dread settled into his stomach. 

“Sergeant Ordonez,” said Williams into his radio, mounting the staircase as he waited for the response to crackle in. 

_“Yes, sir.”_

Lingering at the top of the stairs, Williams appraised the soldiers standing watch, knowing the answer to his own question. “How many guards do we have posted at a time for the prisoners?” 

_“Three in rotation, sir.”_

The guards saluted-- rather weakly-- before Williams took his leave down the hallway. 

In the prisons back home, it was common to have one guard per five inmates. Of course, those inmates weren’t two meters tall with sharp claws and teeth like ice picks. Ideally, he would want a guard posted for every two turians, but that wasn’t feasible with their current numbers. Yet, three watchmen stationed on the outside were hardly enough.

“Triple that. I want a guard posted for each row and I want someone watching the Lieutenant at all times.” 

_“Yes, sir.”_


	5. Victus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **My wonderful betas readers:**  
> [shretl (Girlundone)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl)  
> [Marie_Fanwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_Fanwriter)  
> [White_Aster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_aster/pseuds/White%20Aster)  
> [Kuraiummei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei)  
>  **Content Warning:** Violence and descriptions of physical pain.

Sitting against the wall, Adrien stared off beyond the bars, lazily spinning the water bottle on the mat with a blunted talon. It was a nice distraction to keep him from picking at the tacky gel that he’d applied to his wounds.

A familiar sensation bloomed beneath his keel, reminiscent of sunny afternoons playing _latrunculi_ with his mother. She was a master at the game, having competed in her academy’s tournaments during her youth. She had learned the properties and abilities of every piece on the board and, when Adrien was five, she sat him down and began to teach him too. 

For him, it began as a fun activity to play with his mother but as he aged, it became a way to refine his ability to strategize. He had to read his opponent’s tendencies, and those would often change game by game. For his mother, her first rounds were usually tentative, taking very few risks until reaching later rounds, when she would switch to scorched earth tactics. Adrien had to gauge her mood, measuring her level of recklessness at any given time. 

“Every move is a change on the field,” his mother would remind him when she’d perceive his pinched mandibles for frustration. She would then wait, staring with the golden eyes he’d inherited.

With a steadying breath, Adrien would reply: “And every change is an opportunity.” 

The day he had finally taken his mother’s Chief Primarch was a day he would always remember fondly. He was eleven years old, sitting on his knees across from her, beneath the shady bows of an old _getha_ tree. Eagerness welled inside of him the moment he recognized his opportunity, but he had to temper his emotions lest he give his advantage away. He dug his bare toes into the blue-checkered blanket they kneeled on, waiting… waiting, anticipation building with every passing minute. 

“Gotcha!” He had declared, mandibles flaring the moment his mother made her final mistake, sealing his victory. 

Now, as Adrien leaned against the wall of his cage, he felt that same anticipation brewing in his chest. As he did all those years ago, he moderated his reactions, pouring water into his open maw as he counted the fading footfalls of the human General. 

He heard his feet slow and then pause, and Adrien flicked a mandible. 

Slowly, pieces were falling into place.

When the door of the warehouse cycled shut, he thrummed his vocals into the steel wall. 

_“Done?”_ he asked, the question posed to Gallio but he could feel the word run the length of the wall, all the way down the corridor. The buzz faded as the distance lengthened, each turian echoing the question until it about-faced at the end and came roaring back as an answer. “Done.” 

Adrien released the breath that he’d been holding for, it seemed, the last hour. Since the moment the humans entered his cell, jabbing their tiny fingers at a picture of a turian device outside. He didn’t have to speak their language to know what they wanted. They clearly had no idea what it was and that had them nervous. They were right to be.

It was a Hierarchy-grade electromagnetic pulse beacon, likely the very same device-- Adrien blinked, suppressing his subharmonics--same device that Mags had spent a year working on. Damn, it hurt to think of her. 

What was she doing? Was she still on the Citadel or had she been posted elsewhere? How prevalent was the news on Shanxi? Had she heard of his capture?

Adrien steadied his racing thoughts with a slow inhale. As much as he craved those answers, they wouldn’t help him now. He had to remain focused, ready to seize any opportunity that presented itself, and the humans had just inadvertently shown him one in their own quest for intel.

Laying traps were nothing new for the Hierarchy. In fact, it was covered in their mandatory classes for First Contact. Approach with cautious optimism, but anticipate hostility and have contingencies in motion. Whoever the cowl-clutcher was that ordered the attack on the humans at Relay 314 certainly had the last two rules down, but sadly forgot the first part.

Adrien drained the last of his water and stretched out on the mat, thankful for the newfound relief in his hip. Closing his eyes, he retreated into the safety of his mind where not even the constant surveillance could follow. He imagined perching at the edge of a _latrunculi_ board, a series of pieces laying out before him. On the other side, shrouded in hazy shadow, sat his opponent. 

Before Adrien, hidden in a myriad of moves, lay the key to his victory which sat at the other end of the board: the EMP beacon. Setting that off would completely wipe the enemy’s records and communications not only planetside but satellites and ships too. Names, medical records, supply caches, messages, movement routes, inventory-- all irrevocably gone. Plunged into total darkness, they’d be completely vulnerable to the wrath of the Hierarchy when they returned in force. And they would return. Adrien knew that with every fiber of his being and, given the urgency of the interrogations, the humans agreed. 

The Hierarchy were the defenders of the galaxy, the masters of warfare, titles they would never surrender without a fight. The humans had won a battle and had gotten a taste of what they were up against. Listening to them celebrate upstairs made Adrien almost pity them. They had no idea what was coming. 

Mentally, Adrien had already played his first move. The human chain was full of strong, durable links but a chain was only as strong as its weakest links of which there were several. Red with rust apparent against a field of cold, blue steel. All he had to do was pick at the brittlest one and the whole thing would snap from the immense weight it supported.

In the game of _latrunculi, a_ single pawn could collapse the defense of an opponent, and he knew exactly which pawn to target. Adrien recognized him the instant he turned on his superior. The human he had bitten, marking him with a mangled hand, was both prideful and furious, a dangerous combination. He seemed easy to manipulate, but a test was in order.

What mood was his opponent in? 

The second Adrien spotted him during interrogations, he laid out the bait. He made a point to lock eyes with the human and, when he had his attention, glanced down at the mangled hand, opened his mouth and ran his tongue along his teeth. 

It was as easy as lighting a spark to tinder. 

Immediately, the bandaged human rallied his friends and seized the opportunity to vent a bit of his pent up anger. This begged a second test: how long would it take for the General to step in? 

From what was observed outside, there was clearly division in the ranks. Pain made it impossible to keep an estimation on time, but he could count the number of times the wrench met his plates: Twelve. Within twelve blows, the General stepped in and dissipated the soldiers, though not without resistance. 

The human chain was looking rustier and rustier. 

Adrien frowned as he thought of the General. The man’s tone and body language had said everything his language couldn’t. He was exhausted, overtaxed, and utterly depressed. That he sought solace, intentionally or not, in a captive enemy betrayed the inability to confide in his own soldiers. 

While Victus had yet to meet him until now, it was common knowledge among the troops as to the identity of the surrendering General. It would appear that his subordinates didn’t approve of his decision, though it’s easy to judge a call when it’s made by someone else. Nevertheless, it was another aspect to exploit in his opponent. 

Guilt squeezed his traitorous gizzard at the thought.

The General seemed a fair man and the scar displayed on his face hinted at an untold story of resilience. Surrender was his only choice, and Adrien could only hope the human’s actions would be forgiven in time, but that time wasn’t now and war wasn’t about playing nice. 

So Adrien let the man talk, all the while formulating step three. How was he going to see the bandaged human again? 

While Adrien got results for his tests, he’d inadvertently gotten his pawn in trouble and moved to the far side of the proverbial board out of reach. He needed to give his opponent a reason to put the piece back into play and quick. 

Using his position against the wall, he thrummed an order at an octave he knew was too low for human ears: _“Stare.”_

Hopefully, it would be enough. He considered ordering stronger reactions-- thrashing, roaring, reaching for the bars, but those actions are expected of angry prisoners-- death rolls from cornered prey. On the other hand, calm calculation demonstrated plot and tactics, something far more likely to garner a General’s attention. 

From down the hall, the sound of slowing footsteps confirmed that theory. Now, he could only hope he hadn’t played his hand too early. 

* * *

Time was a funny thing in lockup. There was no visible clock for him to watch and the obnoxiously bright lights never darkened. The only discernible way for Adrien to keep track of the day was with his meals. Normally, he got two a day, though it largely depended on the rotation and the mood of the guard. 

During his first day in prison, he got two meals, presumably one in the morning and one at night, and the same for the following day as well as the one after. On-- he surmised-- the fourth day, he received only one meal, reluctantly delivered by the bandaged human. The tray had been slid under the bars with such force that most of the watery dextro paste, contained in an opened plastic cup, ended up splattered across the floor. 

That was the one and only time Adrien had encountered that human since the day of his ‘interrogation.’ Of course, the interrogations had continued since then, but the General had obviously grown cautious about allowing that particular soldier anywhere near Adrien’s cell.

The third day was also notable as that was when increased security was implemented. It would seem that the turian stare-down he’d orchestrated had been enough to raise the tiny hairs on the General’s neck. Now, a human stood vigilantly against the back wall, watching him at all times through the bars. Every now and again they’d address someone stationed outside of Adrien’s limited view, meaning there was another soldier posted in the aisle. 

Positioned at the end of the aisle with his very own guard, Adrien never saw the other one, but he could hear their footsteps as they patrolled up and down the line of cages. Several footsteps could be heard if Adrien listened hard enough. Two, maybe three more sets, but it was hard to know for sure. Was there a new guard posted for each line of cells? 

If he recalled correctly, there were six rows, which would equal the sum of the guards plus the extra stationed in front of his own cell. But was his aisle the only one with the extra sentry? 

Tipping his head back, Adrien growled, an edge of anxiety twisted his stomach. There were just too many unknowns for comfort. How he wished he could communicate with the other turians in the neighboring rows. If he could hear what they were seeing and experiencing, he could get a better mental outline of the warehouse. Spirits, if he could just reach the bars communication would be so simple. 

_‘Just another move in play,’_ he recited internally. _‘Every move is a change and every change is an opportunity._ ’ 

The increased security limited his ability to converse with his fellow turians even more. To counteract this, they decided to only send messages in between rotations when the humans weren’t looking and even that had its difficulties. 

They were always watching. 

When a new guard showed up, they took their place beside the one to be relieved, watching their captive as the other took their leave. Adrien had to reserve his messages when the humans would drop their attention for a second, asking for water or otherwise communicate to their neighbor. Sometimes they sighed or rolled their eyes, chafing at the mundane position they were placed in, and Adrien endeavored to make it as boring as possible. Every time their eyes glassed over or they rolled the aches from their stiff shoulders was a second to covertly thrum his vocals into the steel wall.

While his chances to communicate had dwindled, this new guard rotation presented new opportunities. Now he was able to get a read on the different soldiers posted. There was a dark-haired female who watched his every movement with unwavering attention while her replacement, a sandy-haired male, was more likely to grow bored watching Adrien sleep or play with a water bottle. New, rusty links in the chain to pick at, though his main target remained elusive. 

The bandaged-hand human had yet to return, likely stationed elsewhere to avoid another confrontation. But there were only so many soldiers stationed at the base. The humans were likely focusing their forces on the relay, preparing for a counter attack while a skeleton crew manned their bases and licked their wounds. With the added rotation for guard duty, Adrien liked his odds of seeing his target again. 

Glancing at the slop that painted the floor of his cell, he noticed the beginnings of separation in its stagnation. The oils shimmered in the overhead lights, fanning out from the bulk of the paste. 

* * *

Adrien sipped from his cup of dextro paste. It was his eleventh meal since entering the cell, meaning six days had passed. Eating was always an awkward and undignified affair. The cup itself wasn’t designed for turian mouths and his hands were still shackled together, the Alliance symbol mocking his every attempt at swallowing without spilling on himself. 

It was a failing endeavor that would lead him to scraping the gruel from his hide and flinging it to the growing puddle of mush on the floor. Whoever was posted to watch him would sneer at the mess, but none bothered to clean it. While the souring paste was growing fragrant, it was there to stay.

The General hadn’t visited him again, likely put off by the presence of the new guards. Whatever story he had shared was not one he was openly divulging to his troops. 

As Adrien was sliding his tongue along the inside walls of the plastic cup, a familiar voice caught his attention. Freezing, he listened, daring not to hope as to who the voice belonged to. 

The bandaged hand soldier entered his field of vision and Adrien had never felt so happy to be glared at. His scowling, human-shaped opportunity paused to say something to the stationed guard, sneered at Adrien, and then continued by. By the rustling of the plastic, it was to fetch a water bottle from the stack the General had gone to earlier. 

He needed to act before the human slipped from his grasp again. Under the surveillance of both the guard and the camera, Adrien had to break his own rule and reach out. Leaning against the wall, he boomed his vocals urgently, hoping the action would go unnoticed by his audience. He pressed against the steel, feeling the vibrations as his message was passed along, all the while he watched the bars urgently, praying he wasn’t too late. 

He counted the seconds in heartbeats, waiting, waiting. 

_“SCREEEEEE!”_

An ear-shattering, turian scream vibrated the air, wailing from the direction of the farthest cell on the line. Adrien flinched at the noise, pins and needles stabbing along the lining of his cowl and rocketing through his aural canals. He had to resist covering his head, needing his hands to snap the metaphorical chain for good once it came dangling into view.

Adrien stood up and dipped his fingers into a glob of fresh dextro paste that was smattered over his keel, and watched as his guard-- the sandy-haired male-- turned away from his cell and sprinted out of view. His booted feet joined a chorus of footfalls echoing on the paved floor toward the raucous.

The pawn, in all his mangled glory, came back into view to follow his comrades, and Adrien launched his assault. With a silent prayer to whatever spirit that might have developed between him and his fellow turians, he took his shot. Raising his bound hands, he flung the paste at the bars.

Time slowed as the wet munition sailed through space, and Adrien held his breath. Then, with a moist slap, time sped up again all at once. The gruel hit the side of his target’s head in a beautiful display of aim that would have shamed even the best sniper. 

Dextro paste never looked so appetizing. 

The man froze, reached up to touch the gruel on his cheek, and turned a wide-eyed look in Adrien’s direction. It was like watching fury explode through an opened window. 

_‘C’mon, you son of a bitch.’_

The human glanced to his left, eyeing the mayhem going on without him. The turian in the far cell was still wailing. Plate met steel, cracking the air in a paintbrush of sound that depicted a flopping turian body slamming against the wall and floor. Humans shouted and, predictably, a cell door trundled open. 

_‘No one will see you enter.’_

Furious eyes flickered back to him, the man’s pink lips pressed into thin lines. Adrien could almost see the gears turning behind blue eyes, processing the time it would take to enter and exit the cell without notice. 

“That’s it,” said Adrien aloud, his primary vocals hoarse from disuse. “They won’t notice you.” 

The human stepped toward the door, stopped, and furtively glanced down the hallway again. 

“Come and get me,” Adrien growled, retaking his foe’s attention, and this time he held it. 

The human approached the cell’s lock and placed his hand upon the reader on the pillar. There was a delightful _ding_ that proceeded the clang of his door sliding open. The human caught the door before it could make much noise and quietly slipped inside. Still comfortably out of reach, the soldier then dipped his good hand into his pocket and produced his weapon of choice, the wrench. 

Adrien made a show of stepping away, feeling the wall at his cowl before withering to the floor. During the human’s last visit brandishing that wrench, Adrien had not fought back. He had laid on the ground and counted the impacts. By the intent in his quarry’s stride, their last encounter had groomed a sense of confidence-- exactly as planned.

Holding up the wrench, the soldier spoke to Adrien, smiling as he caught his quarry look furtively from his face to the metal object. 

He took another step.

He was so close. Adrien tried to make himself as small as possible, his legs trembling from their crouched position.

Another step, the human sneered again and raised his weapon, ready to strike. 

Adrien lunged forward, hitting the end of the cord and feeling the collar snap into his throat, but he had all the space he needed. The human spooked at the movement, spun to retreat, and slipped in the oily gruel at his feet. Down he went, legs sliding out from underneath and within Adrien’s outstretched hands. 

Quickly, Adrien reached for the booted foot and wrapped his fingers around the ankle. He dragged his prey toward him, smearing the gruel across the floor. The man tried to scream but failed as he was pulled against Adrien’s chest. Pinned by the neck with the connecting bar of Adrien’s shackles, the Alliance symbol depressed the lump in the human’s throat. 

It was then Adrien sucked in a lungful of air as the cable attached to his collar slackened with every backward step he took. He shoved his keel into the human’s shoulder blades and leaned backward, using his advanced height while hauling the flailing soldier with him. 

Legs kicked uselessly, at first searching for spurs to stomp but soon grew desperate for a floor that wasn’t there. The wrench swung for Adrien’s head until he was able to pin the offending arm between his body and the wall where the weapon fell silently to the mat below. Then a bandaged hand reached for a mandible to torque but Adrien kept his face back.

Suspended by the throat, a hard jerk was all that was needed for the thrashing to cease. No one heard the crack over the sound of the screaming turian.

From down the hall, the screaming turian had begun slinging insults. “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO FLUSH TO GET RID OF YOU?”

Lowering the human to the floor, Adrien held on for a few more seconds before releasing his hold over the purpled man. Quickly, he flew into motion, his hands skittering over the still body, dipping into pockets for keys to the collar. They had to be there. The contraptions were so quickly made that there was no time for a more sophisticated design such as one requiring a code. There had to be keys--

“Fuck.” Save for a wallet and a multi-purpose knife, the soldier's pockets were empty. Maybe he had been too eager. He selected this target for the ease of manipulation, but perhaps he should have tried to goad one of his guards, instead. 

Adrien growled. This wasn't the time to second guess himself. His plan was already in motion, it was too late to go back. Now, what options were afforded to him?

He noticed the fallen wrench. Seizing the tool, he wedged the thinnest part into the lock and twisted. Spirits, it hurt, even bracing the collar with one hand, the metal bit into his hide and it was all he could do to contain his vocals and prayed the lock would give. 

“SPIRITS, LOOK AT YOU. WAS ANYONE ELSE HURT IN THE ACCIDENT?”

He had to keep trying, he couldn’t stop now, he had to-- 

With a _clink_ , the collar came loose. This time, he couldn't help exhaling. It felt like the first full breath he'd been able to draw in days. Thankfully, the turian still dutifully screaming at the end of the corridor swallowed the sound.

“I WOULD UNPLUG YOUR LIFE SUPPORT TO CHARGE MY DATAPAD!”

Sadly, his shackles were a bit more well-made than the collar. Snapping them wouldn't be effective or efficient, and time was of the essence. The distraction would only last so long and it was only a matter of time before someone checked the security camera. 

Dropping to his knees, Adrien smeared his left hand into the oily paste on the floor, careful to keep his dominant right clean. 

The trick to removing cuffs begins when they’re initially put on. When he was first apprehended, his hands were bound behind his back until he was brought aboard the transport shuttle. There, the cuffs were briefly removed-- with several guns pointed at his head-- so that his hands could be bound at the front, allowing him to sit with his back flush to the wall. It also allowed his captors to watch his hands. 

When the cuffs closed around his wrists, he had slightly shifted his weight back. The movement was minute, easily dismissed for fatigue and the pain of his injuries-- he _had_ been kicked in the head-- but it was enough to shift his hands just as the clasp locked around the base of his thumb. Fortunately, it went unnoticed, the soldiers had other distractions at the time, other prisoners to pay attention to while they loaded one more turian aboard the vessel. 

Now that his hand was sufficiently lubed, he bent to position his bare feet on either side of his left wrist, his toes balanced on the edges of the cuffs. He took a steadying breath and then pushed his legs down. The pain was immediate, steel scraping slowly against soft hide no matter how small he tried to make his hand. 

Adrien scrunched his eyes shut, trying and failing to keep the litany of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ inside his head, but the words fell from his mouth regardless. With his eyes squeezed shut, stars burst behind his lids and it was all he could do to focus on the latest insult from the turian down the hall.

“YOU'RE All AS USELESS AS A ONE-LEGGED ELCOR AT AN ASS KICKING CONTEST!” 

_‘Almost, almost.’_ The cuff had reached the widest part of his thumb. Time was running out. He just needed to get… passed that… part--

With a gusty exhale, Adrien’s legs slackened and his feet fell from their perches, his wrist still clasped in Alliance blue steel. His hand throbbed, squeezed beneath the hard steel, and all he’d have to do to relieve the pain is return the cuff to his wrist but he dared not. He was so close, he just needed something else to--

His eyes fell on the discarded wrench and Adrien frowned as a thought occurred to him. He wouldn’t be able to break the cuffs as easily as he did the collar, but he could certainly break his own hand to make it fit. Filing that away as a last resort, he considered an alternative. Maybe he wouldn't have to _break_ the cuffs but bend them just enough to create some extra space. 

Adrien slid the cuff back to his wrist-- spirits, the relief was instant-- and took up the wrench once again. He pinched the head of one end in his mouth and then bent to wedge the metal prong, on the other end, between his wrist and cuff. Then, after a couple of awkward attempts, he was able to place his foot on the wrench, using the leverage against the steel bounds. 

He snarled at the pain that radiated from his hand as the metal dug into the bones of his wrist. Curling his fingers into a fist, he tried not to imagine his hand breaking beneath the pressure anyway, but he pushed the thought aside. Instead, he fixed his attention solely on the spot of the cuff to which he applied the most pressure, praying that it would give just a little. 

“THE ONLY THING YOU FUCKERS HAVE EVER DEFEATED ARE HIGH EXPECTATIONS!”

_‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.’_

It bent. Spirits, it bent!

“I’M RUNNING OUT OF THINGS TO SAY, BUT YOU ALL CAN GO FUCK YOURSELVES!”

Adrien winced as the wrench clattered to the floor, though if it was noticed, it went ignored for now. As he positioned his feet upon his left cuff, he broke his rule of silence and shouted, “REPORT!” Her response would make a nice distraction from the torment he was about to inflict on himself again. 

“TWO IN HERE. TAKING MY VITALS!”

Kicking down on the metal, he felt it crawl agonizingly slow over his thumb. Blue blood beaded from the scrapes of his previous attempt. At least it would add to the lubrication of the dextro paste.

“Armed?” he grunted. After several beats without a response, he realized he asked too quietly. Pausing to take a breath, he shouted: “ARMED?”

“YES!”

Good. He would need to dispatch the guards, and take their weapons and keys, quietly lest they notify the other guards in the warehouse. No doubt, they were aware of what was going on but would be dutifully maintaining their watch, leaving the situation to their colleagues to control. No need to flood a small space with more personnel than needed.

That would take anywhere between five to twenty seconds. He would need another ten to twenty seconds to release Kuril, give him the second weapon, and together they could address the remaining guards. After that, they’ll reconvene, release the other prisoners, and set their sights on the final goal: The control room. 

Adrien would have only one shot. He wouldn’t get a second. And it would need to be done within the questionable amount of time before someone takes a look at the surveillance footage. But first, he needed to get this damn thing off--

He gasped as the metal slipped mercifully from his bruised and bloodied hand. Cradling the appendage, he flexed his fingers experimentally and then stretched his arms out wide for the first time in six days. Spirits, it was euphoria and his limbs cracked in a symphony of relief but it would have to be short-lived. He was far from finished. 

Free from his bindings, only one obstacle stood between him and his next set of goals. The door would need to be unlocked. 

Rubbing the feeling back into his sore hand, Adrien glanced at the fallen soldier behind him. His gaze dropped to the human’s slackened, five-fingered hand. 

Flaring a mandible, Adrien smiled.

_‘Time to go to work.’_


End file.
